


Venom

by BunnyJess



Category: Arkham Asylum (Comics), Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham Knight Genesis (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Arkham Militia, Audi R8 - Freeform, Blood, Gen, Gotham City - Freeform, Guns, Heavy Angst, I love my female OC, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Knives, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Nanobots, Self Harm, She can and will kick your arse, Slade WIlson cares about his boss, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes, The Militia - Freeform, Threats, Threats of Violence, Violence, Wounds, and murdered, handbrake turns, he sees him as one of his kids, it is my fave car, its just so pretty, like y'all are warned, mentions of Grant and Joey being attacked, set in Arkham verse, so expect references to what Joker did to Jason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-04-06 00:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19051753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BunnyJess/pseuds/BunnyJess
Summary: When the world gives you a raw dealSet you off 'til youScream, "piss off, screw you"When it talks to you like you don't belongOr tells you you're in the wrong field(It's all a little too much. Slade has a bad feeling and decides to check on his charge, his boss, when he's late for training the militia men one morning.) ***Inspired by Venom by Eminem***





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope y'all like this. It was mainly written as a vent fic. I needed to get my own thoughts out and used Jason as a conduit.

It’s too fucking hard to live. The world gave him a raw deal. Killed his dad and his mama too. Left him alone. Streets eating away at his soul until his saviour arrived in black.

 

Tyres a heavy weight in his mind as he thinks back on his past. Screaming _piss off_ and _screw you_ to the world. To the Gotham streets. To the Manor halls. To the cell in Arkham his life truly ended in. When his strong will dissolved leaving only an empty husk.

 

Venezuelan sun burning fragile skin. Skin that’s no longer used to harsh outside environments after a year locked up. Men gathered around for his orders. For his training. For the ability to go through hell with him. Accelerants lacing his hands to burn his way through. The _need_ to blow-up the enigma who’d tried to save him only to kill him.

 

Two years of struggle. Twenty four months of his head spinning. Of hair pulling. Of eating analgesia like they’re gummy bears.

 

Seven hundred and thirty fucking days of devolving into the very mess that killed his mother. Of becoming the monster the streets that raised him wanted him to be. Of the world’s best mercenary acting as his second.

 

Too long. Too many nights of facing the daemons that are bonded to his very soul. Unable to spend every night in a drink and drug induced stupor due to early training sessions. Too many bullets played with. Tempting him.

 

He knows he should have been dead a long time ago. Knows he should have died as a baby. Should have died when he was on the streets. As Robin. As Joker and the rest of Arkham’s hosts play thing.

 

Strong will pulled him through. The inability to bend to the Joker. Even once he’d drained all there was of the kid who’d once inhabited the body.

 

A new thing rose. A being made of venomous anger. Of hatred. Of vengeance.

 

All that kept him alive. Got him out of hell with a broken ankle and a through-and-through to his shoulder.

 

Now it’s just tiring. There is only so much you can hold onto that anger. Eventually it’s clear that the shadow that rescued you the first time doesn’t care. Probably never did.

 

A late night. Darkness creeping in. Darker in his mind than is seeping in through the windows.

 

The custom Glock feels right in his left hand while he holds a pen in his right. The letter is easy. The words flowing. Words he’d once wanted to throw back into the myth’s cowled face. Words he’d once wanted to scream across Gotham. To use to pull the filth of the city into the light. To blow open the doors of hell and watch all that came before burn. It’s all to easy to sign it off. To leave the instructions for the mercenary once morning comes.

 

Peace. Calming emptiness. A sense of serenity. Settled into his very bones like an antidote to the venom he’s spent years fuelling.

 

When day breaks the boss is late. The boss is _never_ late. He’s so stringent about timings that you could set your watch to him.

 

Heavy work boots reverberating steps through the deserted corridor. An uneasy feeling causing nausea to rise for the first time since he saw his son’s blood covered bodies. Something just doesn’t feel _right_.

 

The door is unlocked. The first sign his instincts are correct. The second is the open curtains and empty glass and orange bottles littering the room.

 

That’s when he notices the boss. The kid he’d been paid to keep in Arkham until they paid him more. The ex-Robin who he’d always admired for his grit and determination.

 

Blood and brain matter splatter the wall. The body slumped over the desk. A letter carefully placed out of the line of blowback.

 

_Slade,_

_I know you know who I was. How I was a bird who had his wings torn away, one painful feather at a time._

_This anger is too much. I can’t keep this darkness at bay. This venom away any more._

_It’s burning out. Combusting through me from the inside out._

_Take my body home. Return me to the man who gave up. Let him see just what bringing children into_ his _mission does. How we will all end up._

_I don’t want to come back. I don’t want to live like this anymore._

_Thank you for all you’ve done. You saved me even though there wasn’t much left to be saved. You’re a good man Wilson._

_All the best._

_Jason Todd._

_P.S. Your final payment is larger than ever as a curtesy for this final job._

 

His suspicions confirmed a protective fatherly anger he’d been pushing back since meeting the kid exploded forth. He had reminded him so much of Grant. Of his dead boy. Of his ultimate child. His _favourite_ child.

 

Oh he’d take the body back. Make sure he got the funeral he deserved. Bury him beside Grant so he’d not be alone. So he’d finally have someone by his side always, as he should have always had.

 

Oh he’d let Bruce know what happened. He’d show him the true evidence of how much he’s a weak man. A bitter man. A crazy man.

 

With a militia at his back and a boy gone too soon in his arms, it was time to go to war.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has been in the works since July. I finally finished it with the help of my husband (who helped construct the fight scene) and Belfire (my wonderful little sibling who I love with my whole being).

Gotham was just as dank and gloomy as the white-haired, blue-eyed mercenary remembered. The gothic architecture added to the darkness while the (constantly being replaced) gargoyles provided a great many holds for the (frankly ridiculous) vigilantes that inhabited the crime filled city. However, admiring the grimy habitat wasn’t Slade’s reason for coming back to Satan’s armpit. No, he was here to have a _talk_ with a failure of a father.

 

Now, Slade never claimed to be a good father. He knew he’d failed his sons. Knew they’d ended up dead and mute because of his work. Still; they’d only been subjected to a quick blade, rather than the slow surgically precise invasion Jason had had to suffer through. For that alone, he knew he was a better father that Bruce Wayne showed the world.

 

Three days ago; his boss, his _friend_ , had killed themselves. All because he’d been tormented and controlled by the memories of his past. Jason had become like a son to him. A brother-in-arms. A confidant when the older man was troubled by his own horrible past. Jason had been everything Grant and Joey would have been if they’d remained with him. An angry, volatile young man who could never escape the daemons who’d shaped him.

 

Slade knew the clown was dead. Had seen the news of it and paid a fair whack to confirm the information. It was one of the only things Jason’s father had done right by him. Allowing the monster who’d destroyed all who he’d been before over the course of a year to die. He didn’t have much issue with the clown though.

 

Sure, Joker had kept Jason for a year, longer if you count the clown that still lived in his head. Had tortured him past the point of insanity and into a new person. It was Bruce who’d been the reason for the teen to be in that situation. To be able to be captured.

 

It had been Bruce who Jason had blamed. Bruce who Jason wanted to be returned to with an encore of fire and brimstone. Luckily, he’d left a militia who knew Slade would lead them. Each member was distressed to learn of Jason’s suicide. Slade having to explain all his history. Ensuring they understood just what the young man had been through during his too-short life. They’d all been heartbroken and angry. Each swearing their allegiance to the mission once more. A determination falling over the men and women to avenge the man who’d united them, who’d made them a family when they had all felt alone in the world.

 

Justified in their thirst for revenge the militia had worked with Slade to alter the plan Jason had been working on. He’d planned to use the Bats villains to weaken and distract the man while he took over the city. Now, the militia were just going to take the city with ultimate control going to Elsbeth. She was a formidable opponent. Trained by Slade after making a name for herself in the close-knit mercenary community on her own. Most important of all, she’d been a friend to their boss during his fucked-up childhood. No one dared mess with the tiny woman. She could, and would, kick your arse while wearing six-inch Louboutins and a tight pencil skirt. Never afraid to pull the trigger or throw a blade, the militia had quickly learnt that she was as lethal as the boss, just with a slower simmering anger and a mind that never forgot.

 

The one-eyed man could hear the chatter of the men and women as they spread through the city. Control being easily taken from the likes of the Maroni and Falcone families, Sionis’ mob, and even the likes of Dent and Cobblepot. The city version of a teenage goth wasn’t expecting such a well-oiled machine to flood in. Everyone having grown lax to the standard order of things. Mob bosses would own the sectors. Villains would escape. Batman would ‘save’ them. Over and over, the cycle would go. The city never pushing towards a decent standard.

 

A smile crept over his face. The mere idea that Jason would be getting his vengeance. His bloody revenge. His _freedom_. It made every painful moment seated in his van worth it.

 

The van was as nondescript as you could get. An old beat-up thing they’d purchased via the internet. Black with a couple of dings and no markings on the outside, even the cab smelt a little off. Perfect for remaining away from the all-seeing eyes of the Oracle. It had been easy to outfit with a cold storage unit. Jason safely resting peacefully, just as he’d been since Slade found him that morning.

 

The father of three had cleaned his friend up. Had put a woollen hat to hide the blown-out skull over his mop of curls, once he’d gotten every piece of brain matter and bone out of the tangles. He’d even made sure that Jason was dressed in his Arkham Knight armour. He and Elsbeth had known it was the only way he felt comfortable nowadays, especially if the helmet was in place. However, they hadn’t wanted to cover his face. Both finding comfort in the relaxed facial muscles. If it hadn’t been for the hole in the roof of his mouth and the larger one in place of the back of his skull; well, they’d have thought he was sleeping nightmare free for the first time in years.

 

The creak of fake leather being squeezed by armoured gloves was the only noise filling the otherwise silent van. Slade even reaching up to turn off his comm unit. The militia knew the plan and knew to come to Wayne Manor in an hour and a half. It gave him enough time to drive through the city, giving Jason one last journey through the place that had dragged him into his own personal hell but that still held his heart in her hands.

 

If there was anything he could do for Jason; it would be letting him travel through his home one last time.

 

The foreboding gates appeared soon enough. Black wrought iron with two fancy gold ‘W’s in the centre. The building itself hidden behind an ever-expanding sea of evergreen.

 

It took everything in every muscle fibre of the mercenary to not scream. The place was clearly not fit for children and yet the owner had been allowed to take in three boys. Three young, vulnerable, and mouldable boys. Three boys who’d just wanted a home. A father’s love. A family. A place to _belong_.

 

The buzzer sounded too loud in the quiet Bristol night air. No doubt the Bat would be leaving for patrol soon enough. Wanting to deal with the literal army that had invaded _his_ city. The thought made Slade scoff. No one was taking Gotham back from such a driven group.

 

“Wayne Manor, please state your business.” A sharp British accent spoke through the speaker.

 

Slade knew there would be cameras. It’s why he was wearing a prototype face shield. The hologram would hold up to cameras, even the ones the Bat would use in his general security.

 

“I’ve got something that belongs to Mr Wayne.” He tried to keep his own voice even. Still, teeth grind together and eyebrows pull into a frown. The blue eye never leaving the gap between the gates waiting for them to open. “My boss requested it be returned swiftly to the Batman; and we both know that’s Mr Wayne. Don’t we Alfred.”

 

He dropped enough information to scare the occupants. To make them intrigued enough to want to let him in while remaining paranoid enough to put on a façade when they see him. Each puzzle piece was falling into place perfectly.

 

Now to deliver one hell of a parting ‘gift’.

 

With a creak, one that clearly came from inbuilt speakers to make the gates appear stiffer than they were, the black and gold gates slowly opened. A long driveway coming fully into view.

 

A shudder ran down the enhanced spine. The feeling of being watched falling as swift as the Bat from a building. Pushing the van into drive, Slade didn’t let that stop him. He’d faced worse than a man who dealt with his trauma by beating up the mentally ill.

 

The drive was easily a mile long with a curve near the top. Pebbles bounced up onto the undercarriage while the poor suspension of the van did little to soften the bumpy ride. With the window closed to prevent prying ears, Slade’s eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. His view being purely the cool storage they’d put in the back as the windows were already blacked out. “I’m sorry I had to refer to you as a thing then kid.” His voice rumbled just loud enough to be heard over the engine and outside noise. Taking no chances of being overheard. “You’ve never been a thing. I jus’ wish I’d known how you felt so you could see the way your guys are handling Gotham.” _You did good kid_. Slade didn’t add the last part out loud. Emotion clogging his throat as he thought about just how alone his boss had felt.

 

This wasn’t the first job where is boss had died. He’d had a few where contracts changed or offers were better. Hell, there were even a couple where competitors had taken out his boss before he’d completed his own contract for them.

 

Still, this was the first boss who he’d grown close to. The longest job he’d had. Sure, he’d been being paid a healthy sum of stolen money; but that didn’t mean he hadn’t come to care for the kid in his own way…and that’s all Jason was at the end of the day. A kid. A kid stuck in a scarred body he’d not felt was his own for too many years.

 

He’d tried to be there. Tried to help the nightmares by training Jason to the point of exhaustion to ensure he was too tired to even dream. However, it appeared the clown and his misses had gotten deeper into the Knight’s head than he’d realised.

 

Put simply, he’d failed. Failed to keep the boy safe and free like his contract dictated. So, the least he could do was carry out the lad’s final wishes, the amendment to his contract and give the Bat one final stab of hell.

 

Each time his mind began to wander; the mercenary looped around to if he’d have been able to save the kid. If he’d ever truly gotten the kid out of the devil’s arsehole of an asylum or bleak, all consuming darkness of the cave. In the end he knew the answer, physically he’d succeeded in both. Mentally…not so much.

 

The excessively long and pompous driveway finally ended in a turning circle. The front door open and the three occupants standing on the front steps. Slade pulled the van up and placed it in park. Noticing quickly that the oldest of the trio was carrying a concealed gun under his housecoat while the other two were clearly armed with their stupid _batarangs_. Even if they were more cleverly hidden that the butler’s gun.

 

Slade already knew who each man was. Having made a point to read every piece of intel Jason had on them prior to the man’s death. All to help aid him in his efforts to save a condemned city.

 

He remained seated for just long enough for the trio to become anxious. A hidden twitch thrumming through them all. Their training not being able to hide the clear thoughts of _threat, knows our secret, shit!_ that was evident on each of them.

 

A smug smirk lifted his lips for the first time in days. His hand wanting to lift to switch off the disguise but knowing better than to reveal himself until after he’d revealed the vans _package_.

 

The door opened with a creak. The slightly rusty hinges being the only noise in the quiet night air of the manor’s grounds. Stepping out was surreal. The Bat, his bird, and his butler all shot to attention. Their gaze taking in his size and assessing his threat level. If they were any good, Slade knew they’d have found the hidden guns and knives on his person. One gun and one knife had originally been Jason’s; Slade slipping them from his room to use a piece of the lad to get him justice.

 

“I’m afraid I didn’t get your name Mister…” Alfred trailed off. A clear indication for Slade to state his name. Something the mercenary had no plans of doing until it was time.

 

Huffing a small snort, he moved to the back of the van and opened the door. “I’m only here at the final request of my boss. An amendment to my contract that was made after his suicide.” Slade’s gruffly disguised voice spoke to the owner of the house. To the man who claimed to be there for the citizens of Gotham and yet hadn’t been there when his own son needed him.

 

Pulling out the coffin the militia had purchased on a rush order added a heavy weight to Slade’s soul. A heavier weight than that of the coffin itself. The wheeled bed it was resting on popped out its legs and easily supported the weight of the malnourished, addicted, mentally tortured teen. Easily including the weight of his Arkham Knight armour in that.

 

“Who was your boss? What’s in there?” Bruce suddenly cut in. Having moved closer while Slade was handling the casket with the same level of care he’d handled his baby boys with all those years ago.

 

“The Arkham Knight.” Slade moved to the side away from the people he was here to see. Hands reaching over the lid to enable him to lift it. The smooth wood feeling too cold and impersonal, too plain, for the man who’d created one of the most intricate plans to take out the Bat Slade had ever heard. “You know him better by another name though,” he lifted the lid. “Don’t you, Bats?”

 

Bruce reeled back. His face pale while his hands shook and he readied his weapons. Tim was a step behind, the shock of seeing his predecessor in a casket so many years after his supposed death.

 

“Oh good lord! That’s, that’s not possible.” The Englishman stuttered. His hand reaching out as if to stroke back curls he had no right to touch.

 

Slade pulled the casket out of reach, shutting the lid simultaneously. “I got him out of that fucking asylum. I tried to help him. I tried to give him a purpose. My boy, my brother-in-arms, my boss, _my_ Jason was too tortured by you and that daemon disguised as a clown.” With his final words ringing in the air Slade flicked off his own disguise.

 

A rumbling growl of his name didn’t surprise or startle him. He’d faced off against the Bat early in the man’s career as a furry night stalker. Neither did the (stupidly bat shaped) throwing star that came towards him. Blocking it easily and drawing Jason’s favourite knife.

 

“You did this!” The man continued in his growl. His voice sounding like he had gargled some of the driveway’s gravel. “This isn’t Jason. It can’t be. I saw the tape. I watched Joker shoot him so many times looking for it to be a fake. It wasn’t.”

 

Slade let out a chuckle at the ignorance before him. “And the clown never twisted his plans to suit his own end. To, how did he put it?” Slade stroked his chin, pretending to think. He threw up a finger and faked surprise. “Oh yes, to get the last laugh. Surely it occurred to you that his lady was a doctor and could get someone to save the kid? If not, you’re dumber than you look when you’re all dressed up.”

 

Movements swift, his decades of experience shining brightly through the cloud of grief, Slade struck. His fist was closed around the hilt of the combat knife, the blade pointing away from his own centre mass, he swiped at Bruce. The blade swiped across the broad chest, expensive fabrics parting to show split skin. A trickle of blood following the strike that had been too fast for the vigilante to follow.

 

As if coming to their senses, Bruce and Tim moved. Their bodies in sync in a way that showed off how long they’d been fighting. Slade’s lip curled up on one side. He could use that familiarity. Break it apart and make them fight separately.

 

Tim immediately reached behind his back and pulled out his poorly hidden bow-staff and swung towards Slade’s head. Having seen the weapon Slade planned his counter for the Bird’s predictable strike. He let the staff swing into his hand, using its momentum to wrap his fingers around it. Slade pulled, yanking the younger man towards him whilst lunging with his other fist. It connected with Tim’s jaw and sent him tumbling onto his back.

 

Slade turned just in time to see Bruce flying for him, but not soon enough to block the blow. Bruce’s knuckles crashed into his temple, kicking off an instinctive reaction to focus his thoughts and clear the dizzying effect such a blow should inflict. Slade brought up his knee and kicked out, pushing Bruce’s incoming attack away and allowing himself some breathing space. Slade lunged with his knife once more, but the Bat wouldn’t be fooled twice. He blocked and took hold of Slade’s weapon hand then drove his elbow into Slade’s brow. Again, Slade focused and made two swift but powerful blows into Bruce’s abdomen.

 

Tim had now risen and was swinging for Slade’s exposed back. Using the leverage he had over Bruce from the impact of his punches, he spun on his foot and pulled Bruce to where he had been stood. Tim’s staff slammed into Bruce’s left bicep causing his grip on Slade’s hand to loosen enough for him to wrench it free. He cocked his arm back then sprung it forwards like a striking cobra. The blade slashed through Bruce’s right side, a gush of bright red blood seeping from the laceration. Bruce howled in pain but fought on. He pulled a Batarang from his pocket and flicked it violently at Slade’s face. Slade attempted to dodge it, but the tip cut a gouge across his face just narrowly missing his remaining good eye.

 

By this time Tim had rounded Bruce and leapt into the air with his staff raised above his head. With Slade recovering from Bruce’s attack he couldn’t block the strike. The two-inch thick rod of steel crashed into his back, knocking him to the floor. Never one to go down easy, Slade kicked his legs out spinning round in a flare and knocking both combatants to the floor. As Bruce landed, Slade planted his boot in his face, feeling the nose shatter under his weighted boot. He withdrew his foot to attack Tim, but the tenacious sidekick had already brought his infernal staff to bear and jammed it firmly into the crook of Slade’s knee.

 

Returning the favour, Bruce rose to his feet and kicked hard down into Slade’s abdomen. Considering the man had a three-inch cut in his side the amount of power he summoned in the blow was devastating. All the air rushed from Slade’s lungs. As he fought to catch his breath Tim swung his staff at his head. Slade lazily raised his arm to block the blow, but he angled it wrong and his poor judgement resulted in the familiar pain of broken bones. Sure enough, as he glanced across at his arm he could see it was now bent at a slight angle.

 

Bruce rushed behind Slade and pulled him onto his knees by his ragged crop of hair. Tim threw him the staff and he caught it with both hands and then, with his knee planted firmly in Slade’s back, pulled the staff tightly against his neck. Tim rocked his head from side-to-side, cracking his neck in the process. “I’d think really hard about what you do next Slade. You can’t just walk onto our turf and expect to leave without ramifications.”

 

Suddenly the two hero’s attention was caught, the sound of a heavily revving engine nearby catching their focus. A crash sounded as one of the militia’s armoured personnel carriers smashed through the black and gold gates. Their speed not slowing as they careened up the long drive. Eventually pulling to a stop half on the grass beside the fight.

 

Following through was a black 2012 Audi R8. The super car was swiftly changing gear. Suddenly drifting into a perfectly executed handbrake turn and coming to a stop just before the turning circle. With its blacked-out windows it was impossible for the Wayne family to tell who was driving. All three having restrained the mercenary and grown more tense with the arrival of the armed people.

 

The door to the Audi opened and a leg with a sleek black high-heeled Louboutin and slim-leg black suit settled in the gravel. Slade could feel the malicious bloody grin that fell across his face. Tim’s own face losing any hint of colour as he noticed Deathstroke’s expression. The leg was followed by the small but imposing form of Elsbeth in all her formidable pant-suited glory.

 

With a flick of her wrist the people she’d fetched along moved into position. The lieutenants all having been handpicked by Jason, quickly and efficiently took back control of the situation. Freeing Slade from the Bat and his bird.

 

The two men fought back, fists and feet flying into the armoured bodies. As they were forced onto the defensive Elsbeth stepped forward and kicked out. Her foot snapping up high and colliding with Tim’s chin. His head following the movement and unconsciousness pulling him under. Her men moved in to grab him and restrain him.

 

Bruce stilled. His son falling to such a kick shouldn’t be possible. They’d all been trained to withstand a kick of that calibre. Unless the person had been trained in the force it’d take to knock one of them out.  Further confirming that the man in the casket was indeed his Jay-lad. He felt helpless as he watched Slade pull a silver and red Desert Eagle handgun and hold it to Alfred’s temple. His arm already healing from its fracture.

 

“Honey, I suggest you stop fighting if you want Pennyworth to live.” Elsbeth’s East End Gotham accent was as thick as Jason’s had once been. The voice sounding too close to the man’s own, just a touch higher, causing tears to mist over Bruce’s eyes.

 

The Bat threw up his hands and dropped his fighting stance. “Who are you?” He growled out.

 

A lilting laugh was his answer.

 

A laugh that had been the last thing many a man had heard.

 

Each member of the militia unconsciously straightened up at the sound, a move that didn’t go unnoticed by the Bat. “I’m your worst nightmare. I used to be a sister and best friend. Now I’m only malicious revenge.” Elsbeth turned to her right hand; a man who was the longest serving recruit to the militia after Slade and herself, and who’d been discharged from the Royal Marine Commandos and found himself feeling lost without the order it provided him; as he had his iron grip on the Bat, bringing the man to his knees.

 

“I am Galahad and all you know will fall.” She stepped closer, forcing Bruce to tip his head back to maintain eye contact. He knew the name. Had heard the rumours of a female mercenary almost as deadly as Deathstroke but packed into a body that made her lethality a thousand per cent more unnerving than the older male’s own. “If you want your family to live, I suggest you leave Gotham and never come back. The Bat was supposed to change this city, bring about good. All you’ve managed is failure. We are already accomplishing more for this city than you ever did. You will _not_ fight. Especially if you want your son’s fiancée to join you. Ms Gordon will be remaining in our protection until we are sure you are outside city limits with no intention of returning.”

 

Elsbeth let out another chuckle and gave a twisting wave as she moved back towards her car. Slade moved with all the speed and swiftness the Bat always attempted to imitate; pulling out an auto-injector and forcing the nanobots into the three men’s bloodstreams so they could track their location.

 

“You’ve got two hours. Go.” Slade gave Bruce a strong backhand across the face. His inner turmoil flowing into the strike.

 

The casket had been loaded back into the van with one of the lieutenants hopping into the driver’s seat. Slade gave a jerky nod at the van as he slipped around to the passenger’s side of the Audi R8. The soft leather racing seat hugging his battered body while his eyes remained locked on the van as the three vehicles trundled back towards their future.

 

 

**_ 24 hours later _ **

 

“Gotham is at peace this evening for the first time in over two decades. Every known crime family has been executed, as have all the super criminals once contained in Arkham City. This is all thanks to the efforts of the Arkham Knight Militia who took control of the city in a massive show of force yesterday.” Vicki Vale brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and looked uneasy for the first time in her career. “They have taken over the GCPD; ousting Commissioner Gordon; and replaced every government official. There is a strong presence on the streets with reports of a nearly 90% crime drop in places like The Bowery and Amusement Mile. Is this a sign of things to come? Galahad, the woman in charge of the militia certainly thought so when we caught up with her as she was leaving the GCPD headquarters on Bleake Island.”

 

As Elsbeth’s face appeared on screen the same woman muted the sound and turned to Slade. Both were seated in armchairs in they main base within Killinger’s department store. Glasses of whisky held in their hands with a third sat on the small table between them. She raised her glass, Slade moving to knock his against it.

 

“To Jay. The Knight this city needed; my oldest friend and brother…my Lionheart.” The grief she’d been holding back by choosing to focus on the operation at hand won out.

 

“To Jay.” Slade couldn’t bring himself to say more. What else was there he could say? He’d grown close to the man. Come to see him as a son and he’d lost the battle with his daemons. He’d died, just like Grant. Silenced by forces outside of his control like Joey. Abandoned to the worst evil imaginable, all because a man refused help for his own grief and saw dressing kids up as helping them better themselves.

 

The clinking of glasses became the only sound in the room as both occupants were deep in thought. Gazes locked on the third glass that should have been being drunk by their boss. Instead they’d cremated him that morning, his ashes scattered from the highest building between the four blocks he’d run as a kid. A fitting place for him to rest and watch the all the good his plan would bring.


End file.
